


Index of Refraction

by Reynier, secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25531753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/pseuds/Reynier, https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: Galessin observes his cousin and doesn't like what he sees.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15
Collections: Arthurian_Server_Squad





	Index of Refraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BedazzledChocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BedazzledChocolate/gifts).



> ily ell <3

Galessin could have been a king. He didn’t want to, not really. But he could have been, if things had worked out differently and degrees of relation to Arthur Pendragon hadn’t become quite such a valuable commodity. It was something he thought about, on occasion. He would have happily been a vassal to Arthur, or whichever other warlord happened to seize control of the Atlantic kingdoms. 

Instead he was a nobody vassal knight to King Gawain. 

When Galessin was eleven he had been taken to see an execution for the first time. It had been a grand affair, with streamers strung from the rafters in all the most expensive colours, and the whole court turned out in their finery. Any excuse for a celebration on the grim and rainswept rocks of the Orkneys. Executions were not common: life was too plain and settlements too sparse for much crime to occur. This was the first in three years. 

But mainly it was special because Galessin’s cousin Gawain was to carry out the deed. He was only a year older, and Galessin thought distantly that that must make a great deal of difference, because he could not imagine himself being so calm. It wasn’t a cruel task, not really, but it could hardly be pleasant to hold an axe that large and use it to cut through flesh and bone. These things had to be done. Why they had to be done by his cousin Gawain, Galessin wasn’t sure, but nonetheless it was purportedly a great honour. And so he stood by the side of the courtyard with his younger cousins Aggravaine and Gaheris and watched.

“This man is a traitor,” said King Lot of Orkney. He looked majestic and strong in his ermine-lined cloak, a bronze circlet over his thick brown hair. Just barely out of his youth and entering an elegant middle age. One of his hands gripped his son’s shoulder, and Galessin couldn’t tell if it was a brace or a chain. Gawain was impassive, attentive, stood up straight and did not shift nervously under the eyes of the crowd, nor flinch at their cheers.

Galessin was waiting, guiltily, for him to snap, to grow pale or start crying, to flinch at the crucial moment. He could feel the boys next to him watching like they half-hoped for the same. 

The moment never came. Gawain cut off his head in one confident, strong swing of the axe, and did nothing more than let out a held breath when it was over. The crowd did the same, one collective burst of air and energy like a released valve erupting into applause. It was beautiful, in a way. It was the Orkneys, and after all, the man was a traitor. Up on the dais, Galessin saw Gawain give a small, uncertain smile, like he had only just caught sight of the audience. 

Then his nerves seemed to melt away, replaced by a budding confidence. For a second he caught Galessin’s eye. Then Lot carefully took the blood-stained axe from him, hefted it aloft, and let out a wordless roar. “Let the festivities begin!”

He served as his cousin’s squire for three months. Seven years passed from the day he stood in the cold watching Gawain cut off a man’s head and the day he arrived at Camelot, a young man of eighteen years, ready to serve Logres as best he could. Much had changed since he had seen the Orkney brothers last.

Arrival in Camelot felt like a dream he was half awake from, just beginning to be aware of the extreme oddities but unable to react with anything but numb bemusement. There was the matter of the green bands, first; everyone seemed to wear one and no one would explain why, least of all Gawain. It was surreal. Perhaps it was the muggy air of the Western forests, far less crisp and clear than in the Orkneys. The days felt slower, but people moved like snakes. If you blinked they would be gone. That was what happened to Margal. His only friend among the other squires-- just for a month, only a month, and then he was gone. He disappeared and no one seemed to remember him. Galessin kept his mouth shut in the halls, because he wasn’t stupid, but his cousin was open and friendly and surely nothing could be lost from a question.

They were alone when he asked-- he wasn’t stupid-- in the stables. Gawain was supposedly teaching him something, about horses, maybe, it wasn’t clear. Maybe letting him tag along for chores was his idea of being nice. 

Gawain gave no visible reaction to the question, merely studied him a moment with one hand resting loosely on the wide door as if to push it open, the other at his waist. Not on the hilt of a sword, probably; at some point Galessin did not want to check.

Just when Galessin was wondering if he should repeat the question, he said, “Camelot isn’t like any place you’ve lived before, I think.”

Dumbly, Galessin shook his head. He felt very young all of a sudden, which was ridiculous, because he was only a year younger than his cousin. They had grown up together. Why did they now feel so distant?

“A piece of advice, Galessin,” said Gawain, not unkindly. “People go away, sometimes. You know this. At Camelot, people go away more often than not, and they don’t come back. They fall through the cracks.” He tilted his head and gave a small smile. “You can’t let it trouble you, or you’ll go missing yourself. Understood?”

“Are you threatening me?” Galessin asked, genuinely surprised, blurting words out stupidly out before he could remind himself not to. He was only starting to realize that there were things people like him shouldn’t say to people who were Gawain-- until recently he hadn’t been aware that there was a people like him or a people like Gawain. They had both been people before.

Gawain looked actually hurt, a completely unexpected arrangement of his features. “Of course not. You’re family, I would never-- I’m trying to help you.”

Galessin mumbled something like thanks and about getting on with the horses, and didn’t say what he thought. _I don’t know if I like your way of helping._ He didn’t want to be told to stare at his feet and pretend everything was fine. He had never done that before. When they had been young, it had always been he who told his cousins to behave themselves, at least until they went their separate ways. He was not one to quietly abide wrongs. He took a deep breath. If Gawain was being odd, there was nothing to lose by asking his other question. “And what do the green belts mean?”

“Oh, that.” Gawain was lightly dismissive, pushing open the doors and entering the relative darkness of the stables, waiting for Galessin to follow before letting them swing closed. “Means that the court favours, as ever, aesthetics over reality. You come not to mind it and, in truth, the worldview has a sort of appeal.”

It seemed his cousin had learned to say nothing in many words, and Galessin had no recourse but to frown again and follow him into the stables. 

It would have been pleasant to watch his cousin get the crap beat out of him on the tourney fields. He would have felt bad about it, slightly, but all in all the petty spite of something a long time in coming would have outweighed the guilt. Unfortunately, this did not occur. 

Galessin could see from the instant the fight began that they were a close match. Closer, perhaps, than any fight he had watched Gawain participate in-- the Knight with the Lion wielded his sword with lightning alacrity and a non-ostentatious confidence that Gawain seemed hard-pressed to match. But match it he did as the day wore on and the sun sank lower in the sky and the people in the stands began to mutter in boredom.

It was the exactness, Galessin had always thought, that made Gawain so frightening and fascinating to watch fight. He moved like every action was thought out, planned, somehow, in the tiny fractions of seconds between blows. It was more desperate now, that niceness gone to tired limbs and gasping breaths in the brief pauses between clashing together.

There was the screeching sound of metal against metal, a movement just not quick enough, and Gawain took one half-stumbling step back to rip off the remains of his ruined helmet and discard it. A crowd which was growing restless stilled in horror, for it seemed now inevitable that Gawain would take a blow to the head and be killed. 

And then, without warning, the Knight With the Lion dropped his sword on the ground with a clatter. There was a moment of choking stillness wherein both combatants stared at each other, Gawain with his blood-soaked matted curls and the Knight With the Lion with his overbearing corrugated armour. Then the Knight ripped his own helmet off and stepped forward to pull Gawain into a tight embrace. Shocked murmurs ran throughout the crowd. Up in the stands, Galessin squinted, unable to see who the Knight was from a distance. Sir Lancelot, perhaps? But no, Sir Lancelot was up in the royal box, sitting next to the queen and the seneschal. Then the whispered name made its way to him: 

_Yvain_ , the crowd said, and Galessin pursed his lips. Yvain. The cousin that Gawain loved. The king of Rheged. Someone Galessin had never been able to be, no matter how hard he tried. Through the bitter months of squiring and then the distant years of vaguely helpful errantry, Galessin had tried to overlook his cousin’s idiosyncrasies, had tried so hard to revive the camaraderie they had shared as children, and to no avail. Gawain was too busy being the best, and besides he was so frequently away. He’d left for a year out of solidarity with Yvain, Galessin remembered. He hadn’t missed him.

The muttering of the crowd around him refused to let him muse, as the King and those around him in the royal box-- the Someones-- rose. Gawain was grinning through the blood running down his face, Yvain laughing, shyly, proudly, shocked. For a moment, to Galessin, it seemed the world must turn on it’s head. The best knight in the world had lost, after all. But Yvain was surrendering, insisting that he was the lesser, while, with the equanimity of one who knows he has won, Gawain insisted the victory must go to his cousin.

Then, since it was a tie, Arthur said, and Galessin felt dizzy, the sun suddenly too bright overhead-- _It wasn’t a tie! He lost!_ He looked around him at the crown but no, they had none of the shock he felt. Since it was a tie, Arthur would rule in favour of the sister who had a better claim. They were funneled, Galessin numbly included, off the field and into a banquet, likely with steps in between, all in an unreal haze. 

At the celebratory banquet later that night, he found himself next to Yvain. His cousin was-- unlike the other one-- stone cold sober, and stood clutching an untouched goblet in one hand. Earlier in the evening he and Gawain had been attached at the hip, but now the feast had dwindled into raucous discomfort, the drinkers had gotten drunker, and Gawain had disappeared. Galessin did not number among the drunks. Caught somewhere between bitterness and curiosity, he edged up beside Yvain and cleared his throat. “How does he do it, I wonder?”

“Who?” Yvain asked with a dry resignation that showed he knew exactly what Galessin referred to.

“You won, you know.” Galessin had meant for a subtler approach, but the thought echoing in his head for the whole of the feast appeared somehow in his mouth. 

Yvain raised an eyebrow at him, seemingly untroubled. “I know.”

“But they-- you--” Floundering, Galessin gestured at the whole hall, decked out in all its splendour. “They’re celebrating him more than you. That doesn’t bother you?”

Giving him a curious look, Yvain said, “It seems to bother you a great deal more than it bothers me. You’re from the Orkneys, aren’t you? Sir Galessin? I haven’t seen you in years but I think we knew each other as children.”

They had, and fairly well, Galessin had thought. Apparently not, if Yvain remembered so hazily what Galessin recollected with the clarity of repetition and bitter rumination. How the whole world of the islands seemed to take on a lighter tone, when Morgan came with Yvain. Parties and magic and Yvain laughing with Gawain, and Morgause in as good a mood as she ever was, Gawain more himself than usual. “We met a few times, I think.” 

“Yes… I remember.” Yvain tilted his head and smiled at some unseen memory. “You were friendly as a child. I liked you. Galessin, I’ve-- look. Take my advice.” _Oh,_ thought Galessin, _more unasked-for advice, just what I need._ “Yes?”

Yvain clasped one hand on his shoulder, staring him intently in the eyes. “Animals are a man’s best friend. Not fame. Not glory. Go into the forest and find a wild animal. That will be all you need from life.”

Galessin spent several seconds waiting for Yvain to start laughing, but was faced eventually with the knowledge his cousin was completely serious. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Yvain, gently pressing his goblet into Galessin’s hand. “Have a good night, Galessin. Maybe a badger would do you some good.”

Galessin went to get drunk.

“Gawain has gotten worse,” Galessin declared, waving a finger in the air, “he’s gotten worse since he and Sir Lancelot became thick as thieves. Right? Right, you lot?”

The lot nodded in furious, sodden agreement. They were a ragtag collection of relatives of relatives of well-known knights, of whom the foremost was Kay l’Etrange. They were also very drunk.

“Lancelot…” Bleoberis said grimly, as if from his distant cousinly position he was to give inside information, “is a demon from hell.”

Daniel gave an incoherent moan. “I swear that man would kill any one of us. And now he’s got Gawain to do the talking. Unbelievable.” 

“Lancelot is nice to me,” said Drian de Gallis happily. “He gave me a biscuit once.”

“No, look.” Galessin put his elbows on the table and leaned vaguely towards Drian. “Gawain hates you, though, so he’s gonna, gonna...” He raised a hand, got lazy, and let it fall back onto the table. “He’s gonna whisper his evil Gawain words and soon Lancelot’ll be out for your blood.” 

“Not sure it’s his words that change Lancelot’s mind about things,” muttered Kay under his breath.

Galessin thought about this for a moment, decided it wasn’t worth puzzling over, and moved on. “Well, at any rate. You’re doomed.”

“Oh, like Sir Gawain is especially partial to you, Galessin,” said Daniel. “You’re his very favourite cousin. He cares so deeply for you, the whole court knows it.”

“Yes, sure,” Galessin said, picking up the gest. “And if you were to die your brother would mourn unto his death, so great might be his grief. Like I want Gawain’s affection.” 

“Makes you a Scottish oddity. It’s depressing how much his brothers wish he gave them a second glance.”

Galessin snorted. “You don’t know anything, Bleoberis. His brothers are the only people at court he _does_ care for. You try picking a fight with them in front of everyone and see how that turns out for you.”

“Maybe I will,” leered Bleoberis, who was unpleasant even by their standards. “I’ve heard they’re all cowards, like you.” 

There was a knife at his hip, Galessin knew. His sword was in his rooms, but there was a knife at his hip. He could pull it out and make a point, perhaps, but what would it achieve in the end? He didn’t need the rest of the men to fear him. It was a pretty thought, because no one had been afraid of Galessin ever, and in a fear-based economy that left him somewhat shortchanged, but nothing would come of him antagonizing Bleoberis. So he just shrugged, took another sip of wine, and said, “I thought we were talking about Sir Lancelot.”

“Lancelot this, Lancelot that. We’re always Lancelotting,” said Kay l’Etrange, sullenly.

“I heard he killed an old man in the road,” Daniel shared. “For revealing his _secrets._ ”

“What secrets?” Galessin asked, against his better judgement.

Daniel smirked. “If you knew he’d have to kill you.” 

“That’s stupid,” said Galessin, then amended: “You’re stupid. He’s just a person. He’s not some-- not some nightmare monster.” 

“Right,” Daniel said. “Just a normal person who turns the tide of wars and kills without consequence and has the ear of all the important people in the world.” 

“Including Gawain,” Drian added, who was remembering this point from earlier with concern. “You don’t think he would-- I mean-- Gawain doesn’t even know my name, right?” He glanced around at his fellows, who were too deep in their cups to respond quickly. “Right?”

“I barely know your name,” said Daniel, to general laughter.

“For the past three years I thought you and the other Drian were the same person,” said Kay, ironically.

“Drian the Gay?” Drian asked.

“The what?” said Galessin. There were some general mutters around the table to the effect of telling him not to worry about it. Too drunk to stay interested, he sank down in his seat and let his thoughts drift back to his earliest, most ironic grievance. “I could have been a king, you know.” 

“We know,” said Kay. 

Galessin rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “And instead I’m here. Talking about my cousin’s horrible-- whatever he is.”

“Mhm,” said Kay delicately. 

“It’s rotten luck, is what it is,” Galessin concluded, and took another sip. 

The Holy Grail. Whatever that was. Galessin still wasn’t sure, except that he was looking for it, with no anticipation of finding it. This was Gawain’s fault too, but wasn’t everything. His cousin’s stupid mouth had finally gotten someone in trouble. It was just a pity that person wasn’t Gawain. 

After about a week of riding into nothing, he had happened upon a hermitage which had recently happened upon Gawain to its detriment, and he had a more interesting quarry. So like the crows which follow a marching army, Galessin trailed a few days after Gawain, and like the crows he found bloodshed. At a turn in the road girded by a crumbling monastery, two knights faced each other. One of them was dressed in nondescript grey, his head hidden by a full faceguard. The other was riding a horse Galessin recognized all too well as Gringolet, and was thus indubitably Gawain of Orkney. Something rotten curdling in his chest, he reigned in his horse at the top of a low hill and settled in to watch.

A scene he’d seen a thousand times played out again before him--the violent clash, wild hooves with dust kicked up, metal against metal-- somehow these flashes of images were all that made through. That and the inevitable result. With a gruesome ripping noise, the unidentified knight succumbed to a wicked thrust and lurched forward over the head of his horse. Gawain pulled his sword free from the man’s chest, regarded him for an instant, and then wiped the blade clean on the newly-made corpse’s tabard. 

He took his time to dismount, ruffle Gringolet’s forelock, and plod over to the slumped body on the ground before him. Then, with an air of vague curiosity that was visible even at Galessin’s vantage point, he removed the dead man’s helmet.

And paused. The distance and bad angle obscured the face completely, and Gawain gave nothing away, just sat beside the body holding the helmet loosely for several long moments. Galessin, for reasons unclear even to him, felt something that might have been common sense urge him to turn his horse around and ride far away. But he did not. It was Gawain, he reasoned, and at the end of the day even he wouldn’t kill his own cousin. 

Down the road ahead of him, Gawain stood, lugging the body over his shoulder with a practiced ease and then onto Gringolet’s haunches. Without a backward glance he began to stride off in the direction of the neighbouring monastery, Gringolet walking evenly behind him with his bloody cargo.

He didn’t want Gawain to know he’d been following, a hard thing to explain when he didn’t know himself. So Galessin waited for several long hours for Gawain to emerge and ride off, before approaching the monastery himself. There was a monk standing by the door as though he had been expected. Maybe he had been-- monks were odd sometimes. Or maybe Gawain had known he was there the whole time, and told the monk to expect company. Galessin didn’t care. He gave the man a cursory nod and forged through the door without asking for permission. 

There he was, lying on a slab in the center of the dilapidated courtyard. His thin brown hair was brushed back from his face, serene and entirely unsuited to the bloodstained torso that followed it. His eyes were closed. Galessin sucked in a horrified breath. 

“You knew him?” spoke the monk from behind him. 

Galessin nodded. “Yvain son of Urien. Yvain the Bastard, they called him. The lesser Yvain. He was-- Sir Gawain’s cousin.”

The monks didn’t urge him to stay, and he didn’t ask to. He did not ride after Gawain, or the Grail, or back to Camelot. In fact, he never returned there. He didn’t see the final betrayal, Gawain’s madness and death, the great battle-- he saw Garlot, and tried to rule it well. Who’s to know if he succeeded?


End file.
